London - Edward Rutherfurd [449]
Carpenter fell silent. He understood exactly why the boy had said it. He saw, too, that the children needed him to be their respected grandfather again; to be valiant, like old Gideon and his saints. But it would also be a lie: another act of cowardice to add to the original one. His grandchildren wanted to have faith in him, but what was the value of basing their faith on a fraud?
“The truth is, Gideon,” he heard himself confess, “I did not really try to save her. I saw her up there, but I lost heart.”
“You mean,” the boy was open-eyed, “you let her burn?”
“I’d tried to go up there once but . . . yes. I let her burn.” He sighed. “I was afraid, Gideon. It’s a secret I’ve kept for forty years. But it’s the truth.”
Then after a glance at the boy’s stricken face, he bade them follow him to the staircase that led up into the dome.
It was a long climb up the broad spiral staircase into the dome, for the inner gallery of St Paul’s is a good hundred feet above the cathedral’s floor. O Be Joyful had time to reflect, as he led the way and the two children followed silently behind. Had he lost their respect, even their love? Their thoughts seemed to rest upon his shoulders like a weight, making the climb even harder. The years he had spent finding a modest happiness in his work suddenly vanished, leaving him once more with the remembrance, as keen and cold as it had been forty years before, that he was a coward. And now his grandchildren knew it. By the time he finally reached the base of the dome and entered the gallery that runs round its interior, he felt deeply tired, and indicating to the children that they should wander round, he sat down and rested.
The inner gallery of St Paul’s can be a little frightening. Peeping over the parapet, newcomers suddenly realize that they are suspended in space, hanging with nothing, apparently, below them, over the awesome central void. Glancing up at the huge dome rising another hundred feet above them, they feel as if they have somehow become miraculously attached to that surface and may be expected to fly over the yawning chasm at any moment.
From where he sat with his back against the wall, dully watching the two children across the space, Carpenter could see them taking turns to go to the edge, and then see their heads vanish again as they retreated to the safety of the wall. It was totally quiet. Whatever was passing outside, the three domes kept out every sound. The children, at the far side, had temporarily disappeared. Perhaps they were resting too. He closed his eyes.
And then he heard them. He heard their voices, one coming in at his right ear, the other at his left, as clearly as if they were beside him. He had forgotten to tell them that other great wonder of St Paul’s: that up in the gallery under the dome, the wall is so perfectly circular that even the softest sounds, reverberating on the curved surface, will travel unhindered all the way round. For this reason it was called the Whispering Gallery. With his eyes closed he now heard, as though etched upon the silent emptiness below, the whispers of the children in the dome.
“Did he really let Martha die?” Gideon’s voice.
“He said so.”
“Yes. But grandfather . . .”
“He lacked courage. He lacked faith, Gideon.”
“It was brave of him to tell us, don’t you think?”
“We must not lie.”
There was a pause. Then the boy.
“He was just afraid. That’s all.” Another pause. “Martha. Do you think he’ll still go to heaven?”
The girl was obviously considering. “Those who are chosen, go,” she said at last.
“But won’t he?”
“We don’t know who is chosen, Gideon.”
The boy seemed to think for a while.
“Martha.” The whisper came loud and clear. “If he’s sent to hell, I shall go down and rescue him.”
“You can’t.”
“I shall try.” A pause. “We can still love him, can’t we?”
“I think so.”
“Let’s go back